


Denying desire is not to be done

by TheSweetestThing



Series: Wise To The Ways Of King's Hearts [1]
Category: History - Fandom, The Tudors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary doubts the longevity of her sister's position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denying desire is not to be done

Mary has disliked the affair from the start.

She is not _jealous_ by any means, for had she not had her own fill of the King of England's body? His sweet nothings whispered to Anne are nothing new, his gifts and ardent letters terribly amusing to the siblings, and Mary is happy her dear unmarried sister had someone to occupy her cold bed. It is only...

"Envy." Her brother affirms, laughter shining in his eyes. He is deep in the wine, sprawled in the seat next to her with a broad grin on his lips as he lifts his goblet to his lips once more. Mary has a mind to join him, get delightfully drunk and forget her concerns.

"No." Mary shakes her head, eyes pinned to her little sister's slender body as it traversed the dance floor. Like a bird, with spritely legs and bright eyes, dainty arms held aloft like wings paused before motion. Her crowning glory of dark locks tumble over her shoulders drawing ample attention to her heaving bosom, and she preens and basks in the attention of King Henry and all the other men that accompany him, long eyelashes casting half-cresents on her ivory cheeks. 

"Not envy brother. _Knowledge._ "

Mary would usually be dancing with the best of them, laughing by Anne's side as she was accosted by men. Mary thrives and flourishes surrounded by interesting people. She loves the stories told, the compliments exchanged. Mary would normally bat off her would-be suitors and twirl merrily, head spinning and heart thundering until she was quite breathless with glee, the strings of the music echoing in her ears, safe in the knowledge that the gaiety of such events would never fade from her mind even when she grey grey-haired and feeble.

But tonight... Tonight is different.

Oh everything looks the same, from the people in attendence down to the flickering candles that cast long shadows up and down the grand hall as hot wax drips to the tiled floor. There are the usual splashes of colour in the dresses spinning around and hastily flicked out of the way of wandering feet, gold and silver thread glinting attractively, picked out as they are in the amber red hues of crackling fires. The intoxicating mixture of a dozen perfumes is as heady and alluring as ever and prickle eyes that scour across the handsomely dressed men and women clustered in groups chattering, wine goblets daintily held aloft. The Queen sits before everyone with hands clasped together in the folds of her lap, kind eyes watching attentively every tiny thing that ocurs, wan and weary face seeming to lose several years as soon as the first strings of music began earlier.

Yes, everything is the same as usual but one can sense it in the air, a delicate shift of attention turning from Queen Katherine to the bright and bold Anne Boleyn. Poor Katherine, being shamed so in front of everyone and Mary gazes at the Queen with a twisted mouth hoping she can see her pity, the assurance that she needn't worry for her husband's fascination would soon fade and he'd return back like a dog to its master when he'd had his fun. 

Mary cannot make head nor tail of it, for when she had her illicit encounters with the King he was always the paragon of discretion, ushering her into his chambers in the dead of night and never fawning over her within the eyes and ears of court. Indeed, it had been a sly affair that sent a thrill down Mary's spine as she snuck into his rooms with her giggles hastily hushed by his lips upon hers. There were whispers when her children were born that they were the King's, and when he'd himself asked her she'd said with frank honesty that she did not know. She was a married woman first after all, and she did her wifely duty on the nights not spent with the King. Yes, Mary had enjoyed languishing in the King's arms while still commanding the Queen's love - for bless her soul she knew nothing of it. 

Ironic, that Mary is shamed by her family for her behaviour when her time with the King was so discreet her parents were clueless until she confessed to Anne! Though, Mary reflects, had Anne not always sought to be the best of them all? The best of the Boleyn's, the best of every woman? Intelligent and witty, handsome and ostentatious, and so perhaps it makes sense that her activites with the King were more out in the open. Still, Mary cannot help but feel for the Queen as her little sister's popularity takes off and rises, swooping up and up with as much grace and grandeur as a prized falcon. Anything can easily be hunted though, captured and torn apart and abandoned, and Mary watches the actions unfolding with a degree of forboding thrumming in her veins. 

Her sister is impervious to advice, as always. She believes she knows better then her elder sister, who has feathers for brains and a fancy for anything that shines in the sun. What knows she of the ways of enchantment, entrapment? The girl who had been the lovers of two mighty men, the girl who had been tossed aside by both and was now merely a crude joke? 

She silently watches her sister spurn the King's advances with a smirk and a sly glance, when Mary verily believes they should be gracefully accepted with a wide smile and a squeal and a kiss pressed against the King's lips. It is a dangerous game her sister is playing, brushing her fingers over the flames with no heed to caution. Nobody will listen to her, it seems. What does she know, a discarded and disgraced whore? Her parents have been indifferent towards her ever since she arrived back from France with the rumours swirling years ago. Always an eternal disappointment, is Mary, and she has really only her precious sister left. Is it so wrong to worry so?  She, who worries about nothing and no one!

The problem, Mary thinks, is that with her husband preoccupied with business, her children raised seperately by others and the King besotted with her sister, Mary is left quite alone with her disturbing thoughts. Court is- dare she say it- _boring._ Never before had Mary described a place as such, but she is quite bored of Anne’s talk of Henry, and with nothing else to occupy her time she is miserable. Perhaps she would have been entertained with her old friend Princess Mary, but after her marriage to Charles Brandon she keeps away from court and Mary now has little to occupy her aside from her children in the rare opportunities she is allowed to attend to them. 

Mary takes a sip of wine, trying valiantly to ignore the worry clutching her heartstrings. Lately she is turning out to be a most _dull_  woman it seems, she who is renowed for her love of all festivities! All for the love she bears for her sister, who was out there now cavorting the exact role Mary herself had once played much more subtly. 

"She is heading to heartbreak." 

First Mary had Francis, and then Henry in turn... Anne is supposed to learn from her elder's actions, and while denying a King his desire is not to be done, Mary had hoped Anne would rise above the fickle nature of others and not give her whole heart to him. King's did not love the bodies they sought to lay with, no more then the courtiers they lavished with land and titles. King's only took what they wanted when they wanted and left a trail of broken people behind for others to piece back together when they dared to shatter his illusion. Her sister is holding out for more and Mary fears she will never be satisfied with what she shall recieve - if the King decides he is not wasting his time and moves on.

A frown creases Mary's forehead, and it is so unlike his elder sister to be worrisome George sobers, staring at her narrow-eyed. He leans forward, twining an arm across the ornate carved back of her chair, and around her neck to press his lips against her cheek. His stubble scratches her chin and she sighs dejectedly, wanting nothing more than to run into the crowd and shake her foolish sister's shoulders. 

"When did you become so wise in the ways of the heart?" 

Mary is the eldest, her behaviour dictates the others does it not? If she mopes in the misery of what may not even come to pass, her brother and sister will undoubtedly worry too and Father and Mother in turn. She could not bear to anger her parents further, nor cause her sister pain and whilst Mary can never be called a genius she has a more than ample sense of humour so she reassures her brother with an airy half-smile. 

"I am older, I have seen more of the world." And her shrug is so smooth, so poised, so exact to the haughty manner most women at court adopt that they cannot help but laugh. George squeezes her arm affectionately, close in a way that has been increasingly rare as time has worn on and Mary's smile is real as she relaxes into the plush velvet of her brother's doublet, the scent of his spiced apple perfume clinging to her.  

"But truly sister, Anne has more smarts then the both of us. See how the King is entranced?"

They both watch as across the hall Henry roars with laughter, cheeks ruddy and a fevered look dancing in his cerulean eyes as Anne's lips curl into a smirk. She dances back from his greedy touch with a witty retort and Henry's arms clinch on nothing but empty space where her bodice had been a second before, heaving and stuttering beneath his gaze.  

"He is truly bewitched." Mary agrees, studying Anne's flushed cheeks, the hypnotic swirl of her hair as it spills around her, moving as smooth and languid as liquid through her slender hands when she pulls it away from her face. "How good for Anne, though she denies herself pleasure for no reason." 

"Oh I believe there is every reason for her not to give in." George counters, hiding a yawn behind one hand. Mary frowns at the implication of some scheme, before her eyes are drawn to his state of self.

The cuff of his sleeve is wine-stained, the dark mottled red soaking the fabric and Mary stares fondly at her little brother, transported back to the years of their childhood where George was always messed from something. It seems like the Boleyn siblings have never grown to be adults the way they carry on, and she impulsively lifts her hand to ruffle his thick curls. 

He kicks out with a grumble, slapping her hand away and she laughs. Better to laugh then wallow and feel sorry for oneself, to let worry gnaw at the brain with conversations of ambition, and she swallows the last dregs of her wine and holds her hands out to him expectantly.

"Come, let us dance." 

She'll lose her worries amidst the swirling of slippers on polished mahogany floors, hands clasped lightly around her brothers as she dances. She'll have a wonderful night and forget her foolish troubles and in the morning perhaps the world will have righted again. Stress does not suit a Boleyn after all, and Mary had a reputation of impropriety to uphold. 

Her brother spins her around dizzingly, and she catches only fleeting expressions of her sister and the King as they go by. She determinedly pays no notice to the pair; let her siblings and parents plot to aspire to higher things, Mary is content enough as she is with a husband who is fond of her and two children she loves. 

She laughs as Henry Norris moves to replace George as her partner, and lets her worries be swept away as fast as her feet.


End file.
